


It's An Incredible Mess

by Soul4Sale



Series: Sick Puppies [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Sickness (Flu), Slash, Yaoi, age gap, mlm, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul4Sale/pseuds/Soul4Sale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maturing and growing on someone seemed to go hand in hand. Mike and Firkle can at least agree on one thing; their relationship has evolved with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's An Incredible Mess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FangQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangQueen/gifts).



> So, this sort of just spewed out of me at 4am, and I finished it after almost two hours of trying to write and distracting myself. I really like the overall feel of this piece, but it’s possible it’s got typos and all kind of fun problems. I really worry it’s super rambly? But, I suppose we’ll find out. This will have a second part that I will hopefully get to soon!

In the grand scheme of things, the small time that Mike Makowski and Firkle Ablah had been living together, Firkle had created a list of things that had changed titles more often than he’d like to admit to pertaining to Mike’s habits. 

Every one of the little microaggressions he could record in his metal flipnote notebook piled up more and more every day. It had originally been annoying things Mike does, all in caps, but had changed six or seven times, now. The final version that he’d settled on seemed to be ‘endearing’ things Mike does, and he’d left it at that. Right at the top of the list had been his stupid dramatic way of speaking and doing just about everything. Stupid had been crossed out and rewritten several times, just as well.

His passion for life had also been written in. He’d never met someone as compassionate and caring as Mike Makowski, and it burned him up inside. There was something about the way he went out of his way to be the sweetest guy you’d ever meet that made Firkle want to kill him. He’d taken in someone who had once wanted to kill him (Firkle) without a second thought because he’d needed a safe place to live during his last few years in high school. The idiot figured everything would work out, and he smiled all the time, and he put fresh flowers on the dining room table whenever he could. He laughed at Firkle’s Intimidating Jokes and made tons of vampire puns and only bought something if it was 100% organic and had never hurt anything in its life. In the same breath, he would never force his weird diet or makeup or shampoo on anyone else, and no matter how hard the goth tried, he couldn’t find a real reason to hate the (Former) leader of the vampire society.

Nothing beyond aesthetic reasons, anyway, and even his hard, shriveled, icy goth heart could find it in him to let that be his only reasoning.

In the same amount of time, a mental list of things was building up that he stored away simply as: Cute Things Firkle Does But Doesn’t Know He Does.

At the top of the list was the boy’s sleepy shuffle from his bedroom to the kitchen every morning, wearing oversized slippers and silken pyjama pants, and (usually) one of Mike’s large, fluffy sweaters. He’d glare at everything available, even the wall if it was a perceived threat, and went on autopilot to try and get the coffee maker geared up. Of course, half the time Mike already had his coffee made, exactly how he liked it, a big pot ready and waiting to be demolished by the little caffeine junkie. The whole time, the brunet would watch the slightly shorter man gulp down the (not-so) scalding liquid like it were room temperature water, a fond smile on his face.

There had been times he’d walked in from work to find the goth sucking on the bottle of teriyaki sauce. The shy way he put it away when he’d been caught, all fast hands and pitiful smiles, was enough to have him calling City Wok and ordering them both two pans of teriyaki chicken for dinner. Firkle’s eyes always lit up at the prospect, and it was that almost happy expression that pushed him to maybe spoil the boy more often than not.

A couple times when he’d returned from work, Mike had found their shared bathroom fogged up, warm and humid, while Firkle soaked away his worries with his seemingly endless supply of black bath bombs. Sometimes, his well-read tome of H.P. Lovecraft stories would still be in his hand, or resting on his stomach as he read, or closed and placed on the little caddy for extra soaps and things beside the tub. It warmed his heart, regardless, to see the boy zonked out, relaxed and looking beautiful and calm for once. 

Had he not thought it a serious breach of personal space and common decency, he would have taken a picture of that beautifully freckled face, lips slightly parted and eyes closed. Another part of him figured he didn’t _need_ to take a picture, because whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see it, if he thought for a second. Ashamed as he was to know that every time he pictured what he could of the other’s nude body he ended up sporting more than a little wood, he always had to remind himself that Firkle was incredibly attractive (and of age, now), and that it wasn’t uncommon to have feelings for someone when you spent so much time with them.

For years, their relationship had been intimate in such a platonic way (even on Firkle’s part), that traversing into the realm of kissing and what all came with it just felt like a natural progression to him. The problem with thinking this was that there was a very good chance that, if the quiet little goth that had stolen his heart wasn’t reciprocating his feelings, well, he was bound to be sacrificed to whatever Elder Gods the boy deemed his corpse worthy of. Or, unworthy of, as the case may be. Even still, some small part of him maybe thought that the idea that he’d take the time to do something like that was sweet. This was coming from the kid who thought the most romantic thing in the world was some guy killing him and burying him in the crawlspace underneath his house. That had to be a plus, right?

It was a win-win situation. Right?

Mike sure as Hell hoped so. He had decided a long time ago to pray to Satan whenever his Big Gay Heart decided to beat for a guy. So far, he had been seduced, lied to, and subjected to ridicule enough that, maybe, if he went for someone Satan liked, he could finally settle and be happy. Not to say Firkle was someone he was settling for, necessarily, but he was pretty sure that he wanted to settle _down_ with someone. With Firkle, if the kid could handle any more domesticity in his life.

Chewing his lower lip and worrying the green curved barbel in the center of it, he finally sucked in a deep breath, knocking on the slighter male’s door and waiting for an answer. When nothing happened immediately, he put on his softest voice as he gave another, lighter knock.

“Firkle? Are you home?” He’d been pretty sure that he was, he hadn’t heard him leave and he was pretty sure he’d been there when he’d gotten home… But the continued silence made him nervous, and so he gently jiggled the doorknob, eyes going wide and a little gasp leaving him as the door pushed open. Maybe that was a stupid reaction, most doors opened if you, you know, _opened them_ , but the fact that the door hadn’t been locked surprised him. “Firkle?”

Inside, he saw the little cutie wrapped up in his black comforter, half of the black satin sheet he was cocooned up in on the floor and one leg dangling precariously from the head of the bed. His toes were poised on the edge of his bedside table, and his face was buried in his arm, the television at the other side of the bed a blue screen. A little smile worked over Mike’s lips and he pushed at the little studs at one corner of his mouth. God Almighty, but Firkle was the most precious young man he’d ever seen in his life. 

“Be still, my beating heart.” The dramatic ex-Vampire sighed softly, carefully padding into the room to turn off the TV and help right the younger male in his bed. Placing a pillow under his head, he had been about to turn to leave when his (unreasonably) long hair was grabbed suddenly and he was jerked downward. He’d been about to yelp or pitch a quiet fit that the other could forget about with his nap, but the next course of action caused everything to crash to a halt.

Mike’s brain shut down, his heart stopped, all breath was caught in his throat. There was something about the feel of soft, warm, dry lips against his own that had his jaw quivering. As he leaned a little closer, pressing down onto his knees and tilting his head to allow the other to have control, he felt the fist in his hair turn to a gentler, carding motion and he pressed into it like a cat being pet. It was his own stupidity that had him pulling back, looking at the pretty raven-haired boy before him.

“Firkle, I--” 

“Shut up.” Firkle pressed another kiss to the corner of his lips before pushing back onto his back, yawning at the ceiling. “You know I sleep really light.” He added, a blue-eyed glare directed at the other male, who froze to the spot, barely teetering on the balls of his feet. “So, if you wanted to do something, you should have said something. Staring at me while I sleep isn’t romantic, I don’t care how many times Edward did it to Bella in _Twilight_.” 

That had Mike’s blood rushing up his chest, neck, ears and face so fast he thought his head might implode. Well, he supposed he could just tell the other the truth, even if he didn’t believe him.

“I wasn’t watching, I was… I was checking on you, and trying to help, and--”

“I _said_ shut up. Close the door.” For a second, the optimistic ‘vampire’ looked defeated, slowly rising to his feet. Dejected as he felt, he tried to smile softly as he offered a soft goodbye, only earning a roll of blue eyes in response. “You on this side, Count Fagula. I’ve heard your stupid friends say that cuddling you could cure cancer, and I think I’m coming down with something.”

The immediate smile that had appeared on the elder male’s face only faltered slightly at these words, and then his body shook, from the center of his chest outward.

“If you wanted to get me sick, you could have just said so.”

“Then I wouldn’t have gotten to see the smile wiped off your cheery ass conformist face.” Somehow, though, this read as a compliment as Mike climbed into bed, helping to right the covers and pull the other halfway onto his chest.

“You aren’t _seriously_ going to call me Count Fagula again, are you?” He whispered into the other’s hair, pressing a kiss into the soft, black locks.

“Who says I ever stopped?” Firkle chuckled, before sitting up slightly and turning his head to cough. “Still, we finally kissed, so having a cold or whatever isn’t going to be such a big deal, right?”

That stupid, endeared smile was back and Firkle was tempted to punch him. 

“No big deal, darling.” Another kiss to the smaller’s nose had him doubly ready to hit the ex-vampire, but he managed to stay his hand as another coughing fit took hold of him.

They were going to need some Robitussin.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, that was a lot longer than I thought it would be. xD I hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. These two are killing me. I am dying. Don’t send help. ; u; I’m worried this might have just been a big rambly mess, but hopefully it’s good. ; u;


End file.
